


I Wasn't There and I Should've Been

by yokomya



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Late Night Conversations, post 5x16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:49:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5985229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yokomya/pseuds/yokomya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because this has happened before. </p><p>Stiles coming into her room, apologizing, reminding her of what they used to be. What they used to mean to each other. Each time, she can hear his breath, take in his scents, listen to his faint heartbeat - see his hopeful brown eyes in front of her own.</p><p>Each time, it hurts more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wasn't There and I Should've Been

It was tough, leaving Kira’s house that night.

But she had to.

Malia walks on her own two feet - through the darkened streets, senses heightened, alert and aware of every little sound. She was used to it.

 

_Never let your guard down._

_Never falter in your footsteps._

_Never trust that it's safe._

 

It’s how she had to be in the woods - as a coyote. Danger at every corner, fending for her own food, protecting herself above all else. Survival.

It took time to learn how to trust others, how to drop her guard so she could let her pack in. It was hard and some days she thought she would never adapt. Some days, she still doesn’t think she can.

But she’s trying.

She fought for Lydia tonight. Her pack mate. Her _friend_.

That counts for something, doesn’t it?

In all honesty, she wanted nothing more than to crash at Kira’s house after the hell they faced in Eichen - but Scott showed up and she couldn’t interfere.

Scott is Kira’s safety net, her happiness. She has someone to rely on when her walls are falling apart and that’s good. Kira deserves it.

They all do, all of her friends.

Liam is in pain and he reaches for Mason or for Hayden. Scott has his mom, has Deaton - the relief on his face when Malia brought Deaton was irreplaceable. And Lydia has her mother too, to comfort her when she’s hurt and get her what she needs - even if it’s in the wrong way, she has good intentions for her daughter. And Stiles, well, he -

 

 _Stiles_.

 

Malia hardens instinctively. But the thought dissipates and she picks her shoulders up, checks her surrounding again, eyes keen on any sudden movements in the shadows. She's almost home now, a few corners left to go - 

Stiles has his dad.

He has the Sheriff.

That night, at the hospital, Malia’s heart had stopped in her chest. Because the Sheriff had meant something to her too. He was there for Malia too. The man who brought her home, kept her safe from her actual father - from almost killing her - and gave her shelter, a home where she could be herself, accepted - regardless of the Sheriff’s stance on the supernatural.

But she kept her distance that night at the hospital. Put up a brave front.

Because the Sheriff is Stiles’ father, not hers.

Not hers.

So, she didn’t interfere.

Malia jogs up to her doorstep, mind wandering more than it should. She shuts it off, goes back to making sure the coast is clear. A second of respite is enough for a wild animal to attack - for a dread doctor to show up from thin air.

Not even 24 hours ago, she took a chance on Theo, decided to trust someone against her better judgement. And that got her nothing but injury and sworn hate and vengeance from the Desert Wolf.

 

_You made me kill my own family._

_I am your family, sweetheart._

 

Peter and the Desert Wolf. Those were her _safety nets_.

Malia opens the front door and shuts it, wincing at the pain that’s still been in her bones since Eichen. Since she eased the suffering of that Chimera kid. To save Kira. To save Lydia. She endured the pain. Scott would have.

Her house is quiet and her father is asleep, clueless to her being gone in the first place. He’s in the dark about where she came from, who she is. They exist together but nothing more. Anytime they attempt to rekindle their _father-daughter bond_  - it fails.

All Malia could find in his eyes was confusion - _how did she survive, where has she been all these years?_ \- and sometimes a shade of fear. Emptiness, loss, drinking himself to sleep, a constant state of not knowing or not caring. The man he once was is shattered, broken beyond repair. _That’s_ her father. 

And Malia’s burden.

Her arms shake as she cleans off the blood - not her blood, the Chimera’s. It’s a reminder that she isn’t human. That she’s a werecoyote. Which means she can handle all of this. She's fine.

Even with her pack now, that hasn’t changed. She will fight her own battles. She _will_ survive. She will growl in the face of danger, shelter the soft parts of herself so that she doesn’t fall, bare her teeth to hide weakness and avoid the pain of dependency. She needs no one.

Malia walks on her own.

When she's finished, she goes down the hallway and shuts the door to her room, taking in the hollow, dark space. The cold glides over her skin as she shrugs her jacket off. At least here, it's where she’s the most safe, maybe. Even though she’s never really safe. Not with all the lurking threats in this town.

 

“Malia?”

 

Her eyes brighten into a fiery blue and seek the dark, find the direction of the sound, low rumble in her chest escaping.

“Hey- it’s me, Malia, it’s me,” Stiles whispers, holding his hands up in defense, standing back to the wall by the window. The moon hits him and she wonders how long he’s been there, why she didn't notice. 

The hairs on her body stand up and she grows anxious, as if Stiles is still a threat somehow. And he is. She’s seen what _skinny, defenseless Stiles_ can do.

“Sorry,” he says, low and soft.

Oh.

That word, that simple word, it brings warmth to Malia’s cold exterior. The emotions she’s spent so long locking away resurface. Stiles doesn’t move but slowly drops his hands to his sides, his posture relaxes, gaze fixated on her. She must appear so stiff at the door, unwavering and startled.

She hates when he studies her.

“Lydia’s home,” Stiles continues, as if they were having a conversation in the schoolyard, “But ah - I guess you knew that.”

Malia’s mouth curls up and she turns her head away so she doesn’t have to look anymore. Hearing that eases the pressure a little bit.

“That's good.”

“Yeah?” Stiles nods, easing off the wall but returns quickly when Malia’s eyes fly to him, “Listen, I just wanted to make sure you - you know, were okay after everything screwed up back there.”

“I’m fine,” Malia replies stoically, crossing her arms, holding her head higher. “I heal, remember?”

“That’s not what I - “ Stiles stops himself and winces, rubbing the side of his face. Anxiety wafts off of him, even from across the room Malia is trained on the scent - “I’m aware you can heal, Malia.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

The words come out of her mouth instantly, automatic, reflexive. She _is_ fine. She can protect herself. She doesn’t need anyone to keep check on her.

She’s strong.

Stiles drops his head and raises it again, shifting between left and right leg, as if he might go any second but determination is binding him to the floor.

“Look, Stiles,” Malia begins, also bearing her shoes down into the carpet, “It’s getting late. You need to go.”

Stiles watches her carefully, as if _he’s_ the werewolf keeping tabs on _her_ chemo signals and heart rate and their eyes meet and Malia feels understood again, feels _okay_ , but that’s not -

“I mean it.”

Her voice falters - a mistake - she has to inhale and cross her arms harder, raise her eyebrows, widen her stance.

 

_Show no weakness._

_Keep it to yourself, hidden away, only you can touch it._

 

“Malia - “

 

“ _Get out_.”

 

He doesn't move.

Stiles is stubborn, to the point of it being annoying. Life threatening even. He pushes himself off the wall, features softening, a new scent of emotion reaching Malia - _care_.

It isn’t the first time this has happened.

“I’m sorry, Malia, about before - “

“Go, Stiles," she disregards, not wanting to hear it.

She can't. She has to stop this.

“- I hurt you, I know that,” he keeps going gently, crossing the space between them, “And I wasn't aware of what happened with the Desert Wolf, what you’ve been planning but in the tunnels, Theo told me - “

“I don’t care,” Malia snaps, “I don’t _want_ you here.”

 

_Don't let him get to your head. Close yourself off._

_Don't believe it._

_You're stronger than that._

 

“Don’t shut me out,” Stiles murmurs, closer now, right in front of her, "Okay? I know that's - I shouldn't be telling you that because you don't  _have_ to forgive me. It's your decision. But, Malia, I need it."

She shuts her eyes and digs her nails into her arms, dropping her head a little, biting her lip, swept up in a rush of feelings as he talks.

 

_It hurts._

_It hurts, save me, it hurts._

 

“I _need_ your forgiveness,” Stiles pleads, “And I was wrong about so many things. I messed up. With Scott, with _you_ -” he pauses and inhales, gathers himself, licks his lower lip, does all the nervous ticks Malia has memorized -

 

“I wasn’t there and I should've been.”

 

It hits like a grenade. 

Crumbles Malia's defenses, brings her back to him, back into his caring gaze, to his trust, to -

 

“I don’t need this,” Malia answers through her teeth, stepping back. She knows what's best. What this is. Why she shouldn't give in to any of it. “ _Leave_.”

“You’re right,” Stiles replies knowingly, “But I need you to hear me out. I need  _you_.”

Malia’s breath hitches and she swallows hard, uncurling her fingers from her arms. This has happened before.

“I’m sorry, Malia. I’ll be there for you from now on. I'm not going anywhere."

She can't believe him, can't believe any of this. It isn't fair. It's cruel.

Her fingers tremor and her head swirls - all the suppressed anger and sorrow colliding as he reaches out and brushes a thumb across her cheek.

 

" _I promise_.”

 

The warmth of his hand vanishes as soon as it came. 

Malia has to bite her cheek so hard that there's blood - just to keep the strangled cry from exploding out of her lungs.

Because this _has_ happened before. 

Stiles coming into her room, apologizing, reminding her of what they used to be. What they used to mean to each other. Each time, she can hear his breath, take in his scents, listen to his faint heartbeat - see his hopeful brown eyes in front of her own.

Each time, it hurts more.

Bringing her closer and closer to breaking.

 

Closer to _believing_  - that one day it may come true.

 

Her eyes sting from the onset of tears but they don’t fall - and they never will. She opens them, looks into the nothingness in front of her - to the empty, moonlit room.

 

Where Stiles never was.


End file.
